


Slow Burn

by Pares (kormantic)



Series: And How [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Camping, Communal Grooming, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Sharing a Bed, Skunked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-02-03
Updated: 1999-02-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/pseuds/Pares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair head for the hills to sort things out, but a chance meeting with a loving couple leaves them both in a funk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Burn

**Author's Note:**

> This is a stand alone sequel to Cold Sweat. Thanks to Charlemagne for inspiration and Iain for beta, and Te and JiM for loving encouragement.

Okay, I've had two glasses of water, and even _I'm_ talked out. 

"Jim? It's been an hour, man. Is there a reason you can't fall asleep?" 

"As long as you're talking, I know you're there." 

Oh. 

"Well, maybe you could, you know, tune into my breathing, or my heartbeat or something." 

He shrugs, says, "It didn't work before. That's why I had to keep coming down to check on you. To be sure." 

Hmm... 

"Well... I could... I could get that inflatable mattress and sleep up here. That way, all you have to do is open your eyes and turn your head and _bang_ , I'll be right there in living color." 

Jim may be the one whose head is cocked to hear His Master's Voice, but I'm the one curled at the foot of the bed. This is seriously ridiculous. I should probably invest in a collar. Blair Sandburg: Guide Dog. 

But if it means Jim sleeps better, than I can, too. 

And heck, the guy just saved my life for the 423rd time. It's the least I can do. 

* * *

I was _trying_ to sleep... But Blair's so easy to listen to. I get wrapped up in his voice sometimes. Not the words so much, Sandburg doesn't always make a lot of sense to me, but in the sound. Like getting wrapped up in... in flannel. Blair's voice is like that: soft and warm and... and _cozy_. 

I'm not very good at this. 

I was sort of hoping he'd just suggest sharing the bed on his own. Kind of get the hint. 

Instead, he's decided to sleep on the floor. 

I'm not sure if I should be insulted or what. 

I mean, he cuddled up to me last night, right? 

Can't we just do that again? 

* * *

Jim doesn't look crazy about the idea, but he doesn't protest, either. 

So, I drag the mattress and the bicycle pump up stairs, and Jim fills it in like, thirty seconds, arms flexing like a workout video on fast forward. 

Finally, Jim gets back in bed, I drape some blankets on the squeaky mattress, and we both sack out. 

"Do you think the creaking is going to bother you, Jim?" 

"It doesn't when we're camping." 

Good point. We've shared sleeping quarters before closer than this. No big deal. Nylon roof, shared morning breath, mummy bags shoulder to shoulder. Been there, done that. 

Why is _this_ such a _trial_ then? 

I am clearly losing my mind. 

Finally, Jim's breathing gets long and slow, and I drop off. 

* * *

Finally, Blair's breathing gets long and slow, and he drops off. 

There he is. Blair Sandburg, faithful guide, constant companion. Sleeping on my floor. 

Now I can stare at him all night if I feel like it. 

And I just might do that. 

It's easy for me to see him, plenty of light for Sentinel eyes to look their fill. His shoulders, back, legs, all his angles and energy muffled up in blankets. Those blue eyes shuttered by smooth lids and long lashes. 

I will never be able to tell him how glad I was to see him open them when I yanked on that refrigerator door and woke him up. 

I'm surprised he hasn't said anything. About waking up in bed with me yesterday, or me kissing him at the restaurant. I guess he's fine with it, or he's confused but not really too worried about it, or maybe he _is_ upset, and he doesn't want to upset _me_. 

That last one seems pretty likely. 

Blair seems to focus more on me than he does himself. I mean, the kid was facing suffocation, and one of the first things out of his mouth was how worried he'd been about me. 

Considering it was basically my fault he'd gotten carried off in the first place... 

Sandburg amazes me. 

He really does. 

Energy, enthusiasm, and tireless patience. 

He humors me when I'm grouchy and reassures me when I'm worried, tries not to do anything that might tweak my senses and backs me up every way he can. Blair routinely ends up experiencing what he calls "Drama In Real Life" and doesn't make a penny for his trouble. 

In fact, he pays me rent for the _privilege_ of sleeping on my floor. 

He _makes_ me cash his checks. 

I charge him as little as he'll let me, but still. 

I can't get over him. 

I don't want to get over him. 

I clench my hands because I want to reach out and see if I can touch his hair. Lately, I've been thinking about it a lot. About all kinds of things. About Blair. His hands. His mouth. How long he'll stay. 

Sometimes I think I should make him leave for his own good. 

But I can't just put him on the stoop like a housecat. He's a person. An adult. He knows the risks, and he must have his own reasons for sticking with me, right? 

"It's about friendship," he said once. 

It's been friendship, yes, but what if I want it to be more than that? 

God, what if _he_ wants more than that? 

He was hard every time I woke him up; and he _stayed_ hard, all the time that I'd stand there. 

Does that mean he wants me, or is it just a Blair thing? 

Once, a girlfriend of his dropped him off at the curb, and as she was driving away, I overheard her comment to another friend still in the car: 

"He's like a _gobstopper_ , Kendra. As in _everlasting_ ." 

I find I don't mind the idea of sucking on Blair. 

What the _hell_ is wrong with me? 

* * *

I wake up later, how much later I don't know, because I can't see the alarm clock from this angle, and Jim's the guy who sleeps with his watch on. 

Anyway, I'm shivering and I'm thinking maybe I'll sneak downstairs to get another blanket. I mean, theoretically, heat rises, but trust me, the floor of the loft is colder than my bed downstairs, and I sit up. 

It's dark up here, yeah, but not the total darkness of The Fridge. I can tell Jim is staring at me. He's completely motionless, but I'm sure he's awake. 

"You were dreaming," he tells me. 

And he's right, so I say, "I dreamt that it was dark, that I was cold. Nothing surprising, really. How about you? Did you dream?" 

"You were complaining about the thermostat. Bitching to yourself. You kept talking about energy conservation and then you'd rub your hands together and glare at the thermostat and bitch some more." 

I laugh. That's pretty much the conversation I'd had with myself about a week ago. Man, I'd _wanted_ to turn it up, but then I'd started thinking about BTU's and strip mines and pollution and in the end I just tugged on another sweater and my fingerless gloves. 

I mean, it wasn't _sub-zero_ or anything, and it's not like I have bad circulation; Washington is chilly and damp, but we don't get too much snow here in Cascade, and it's already nearly April. I guess I'm just built for warmer climes. 

Jim says: "Give me your hand." And I do, and he grumbles, all irritated, "You _are_ cold." 

Well, _yeah_. 

"I was just going to get another blanket." 

He chafes my hand between his, and let me tell you, a nice cozy friction tingles right up my arm. Then he lets me go and says, "Turn up the heat, Chief," and it sounds so much like an invitation that it throws me for a second. 

I clear my throat. 

"Okay. Good idea." 

BTU's be damned; the idea of shivering on the floor so close to Jim's nice, warm bed is too much to deal with, so I slip downstairs, pull a second pair of socks on, grab another quilt and bump the thermostat up another five degrees. 

And we sleep. 

Of course, I wake up again. 

And this time, Jim's stripped off his T-shirt and he's splayed on top of the covers. 

Hot. 

It's hot in here. 

Too hot for Jim. 

Even in the dim glow of the downstairs kitchen light, Jim is _well_ defined. The little hills and valleys of muscle in his chest and stomach make me flashback to Anatomy and Physiology with Mrs. Poniatowski for a second, but then I forget to try and name anything at all when he shifts a little and a ripple just shimmies all along his torso... 

Hoo, yeah. 

Hot for Jim. 

I curl up with my back to the bed and try and remember the ingredients listed on the Twinkies wrapper I'd found wadded in the ashtray of the truck the other day. I feel a _tad_ guilty about making Jim lay off junkfood, but it's really not any good for him, and it's not like they had Ring Ding's in the jungles of pre-civilization. Riboflavin, dextrose, yellow corn flour, corn syrup, cellulose gum, polysorbate 60, wheat gluten, lecithin, yellow #5... 

That's all I can remember. But all I can really think about is golden beefcake and creamy filling-- 

Spongecake! Golden _spongecake_ and... um... creamy filling... 

Oh, jeez. 

Too late. 

Jim says my name so softly I think he's talking in his sleep. I look over my shoulder. 

"Yeah?" 

"You still cold?" 

"Not really." And it's true. Cold has ceased to be a problem for me. I'm sure my core temperature is climbing right toward meltdown. I'm going to be my own disaster area. 

"You okay on the floor?" He sounds awfully concerned for someone who spent a day calling me "Princess", as in 'The Princess and the Pea', on our last camping trip for not being able to sleep with a rock digging me in the kidney. 

I sometimes feel that all those Big Brothers my child welfare advocates always wanted to hang on me have come back to haunt me in the form of one gigantic fraternally concerned amalgam called Jim Ellison. 

I turn my head to stare at the handles on his dresser before saying, "Fine." 

"So why are you awake?" 

"I just _am_." Hey, if you can't be irritable at Who Knows What o'clock in the morning, when _can_ you be irritable? 

"Sandburg, would you do me a favor?" And he sounds... not peeved, exactly, but reluctant. 

"Sure." Anything, just let my stiffie relax a little first. 

"Would you sleep up here? Just for tonight?" 

I am stunned. 

If he'd asked me to give him a home perm I couldn't have been more shocked. 

Jim must be _freaking_ if he can even _ask_ that. 

"Sure, Jim," I say, after a moment too long. I huddle up the blankets and get up, setting them on his bed. 

"I've been meaning to explain about last night-" 

"Just lay down," he says, and he scootches over a little after smoothing the blankets out. 

And I do, and snug the comforter over me and bring my knees up, keeping my back to Jim. 

"If it really bothers you-" and he sounds nervous, confused. I need to at least _pretend_ to be relaxed, so I stretch out and lay back, my face to the ceiling. He's right there next to me, and he nods a little, then tucks his hands behind his head. 

"Thanks," he says, and he's sounds so... so _grateful_ I feel like a shmuck for having even a drop of anxiety about being here for him. 

"It's no problem," I lie, but I mean well, so let's just call it a half-truth. "In fact..." What the hell. It's the middle of the night. Maybe he'll forget by morning. "Actually, I kind of liked waking up in your bed." 

No comment from him, and I'm praying he was asleep before I said anything out loud and then he says: 

"I liked it, too." 

"Well, yeah, you know, animal comfort, reassurance of touch, that kinda thing," I babble, trying to make two straight men sharing a bed a rational event. 

Another gliding silence, just me and Jim breathing in the same room, and then he speaks again. 

"Was that what you were talking about? When you said you liked waking up here?" 

"Well... That's part of it." 

"What's the other part?" 

Is he trying to _kill_ me? 

"Jim," and I roll over on my side, toward him this time, and I say, "I don't think I can have this conversation right now. I mean... you're right _there_!" 

He stretches his arms out and lays them down on top of the covers. 

"Does this mean we're not gonna talk about this at all?" 

"No. No, it doesn't," and I take his hand between both of mine. "I was thinking we could go to the Y camp at the lake for a day or two. Fitch has the keys to the counselor's cabins. It's off season and there won't be anybody there, no distractions, no work, and then... then we can talk about this." 

Whatever this is. 

He nods a little, like he's satisfied for the moment, and I squeeze his hand and move a little closer. 

"Sandburg, let go of my hand," he mutters, and I feel my face go Crayola pink. 

"Uh, sorry about that. Heh." 

"C'mere," he says, exasperated, and stretches his arm out so I can rest my neck on it. It takes _restraint_ not to sneak my tongue out and lick his skin, so I close my eyes and just try to enjoy breathing in Jim's bed. 

* * *

I wake up to somebody scrubbing my shoulder with what feels like a rubber eraser and a Brillo pad. 

Sandburg. Unshaven for two days now. 

He's nuzzling my upper arm... energetically. 

"What are you doing?" 

He looks bright eyed and bushy- not gonna finish that sentence. 

"Hey, man, my nose itched, and you've got my hands." 

It's true. I have both his hands trapped on my chest under my palm, and my left arm is numb from where Sandburg used it as a pillow. 

"Get up already," he prompts. 

"Since when are you Mr. Crack of Dawn?" 

"Jim, the earlier we get up, the sooner we pack, the sooner we pack, the less traffic we hit, the less traffic we hit, the more time we can spend communing with nature at beautiful Lake Winnimoki. All we have to do is call in and tell Simon we're gone for the day and then stop by the Anthro building. I know where Fitch keeps his keys." 

"I don't know, Sandburg." 

"What don't you know? You have comp time and I gave my class a week for research because their final paper is due on the 27th." 

"It gets pretty nippy in the mountains, Chief, even in March. You gonna be warm enough?" 

"Jim, what am I, twelve? I can dress for the weather. Jeez. Next you'll be helping me button my coat." 

Maybe _unbutton_ it, but I clamp down on that. 

We'll have time for that later. 

Blair's made time. 

"Jim, c'mon, leggo my eggo here, I gotta take a shower," and he tugs his hands free and sits up in the bed. I figure he's just gonna roll on down the stairs and into the shower, but instead, he pins my shoulders with his newly freed hands and says, "Jim, tell me now, okay? Tonight... are we gonna do more than talk?" 

I just stare at him, surprised that I'm surprised, but I answer, "I think so." 

Best I can do on short notice. 

Then he flops down on top of me, cheek to my chest, reminding me of the way we woke up yesterday. He's careful to only let our upper bodies touch, (I happen to know we're both sporting wood) and gives me a quick squeeze. It's more like he's poking me in the ribs with his elbows than a hug, but I'll take it. 

Then he's off like a rocket, leaving specks of Blair dust to float around and glint in the morning sun. 

* * *

The trip up went surprisingly smoothly. _Too_ smoothly. We talked a little, we ate breakfast, called Simon, packed up our gear, stopped at the market for supplies, got the keys, etc., etc. 

Not a hitch. 

We got up here in record time. 

It's even sort of sunny out. 

The air is nice and fresh and it's _quiet_ here, to my ears anyway. I don't doubt Jim is hearing all kinds of chitters and squeaks and stuff like that. 

And now I'm wandering around trying to gather some wood so we can cook out tonight. 

Tonight. 

Well, at least there's no one around to notice if I get a little buzzed just thinking about trying to explain things to Jim. 

Even though it seems like he's already on my wavelength. 

_He_ seems to be looking forward to tonight, and I'm guessing the lecture series isn't part of the main attraction. 

Attraction is the main attraction, people. 

My attraction to Jim, his attraction to me. 

Damn it. 

I just tripped over a stupid rock and dropped the stupid wood all over the stupid- 

**HOLY SHIT!**

* * *

I'm off the instant I hear him. 

Blair screamed, and I've got to find him. 

Jesus Christ, we haven't even been here five minutes and now he's gone and hurt himself or- 

I run in the direction his voice came from and then it's like I'm in a fog- there's a _wall_ of... of _funk_ , and it's a smell so strong, I'm half blind with it. It's like something rotten and spicy and sour-- _pungeant_ doesn't begin to describe it. 

"Jim? Is that you?" 

Blair. Thank God. 

"I heard you yell, Chief. You okay?" 

"Oh, MAN, I am very _far_ from okay! I just got hosed down by skunks!" 

No kidding. 

"'Skunks'? As in more than one?" 

My eyes clear enough that I can see him shake his head and give me a rueful smile. 

"Well, they were a little busy, and I practically tripped over them and they freaked _out_ , Jim, and I got sprayed in _stereo_ , man." 

"You lost me, Sandburg." 

"They were... gettin' busy. You know, Muskrat Love?" He folds one arm over his chest and does a little mambo step. 

"You're telling me you tripped over a pair of mating skunks?" 

"Well, not _them_ , I tripped over a rock and nearly smooshed them, and they _really_ didn't take it very well." 

He shook his head again and a fresh shot of skunk unfurls from under his hair. 

"You reek, Sandburg." 

He glares at me. 

"Tell me something I _don't_ know, man." 

"Well, we have a couple of cans of stewed tomatoes. That should help neutralize the..." Eyes still watering, I wave the air in front of my face, trying to find some fresh air, "stench." 

"Damn it!" he mutters, as he stamps toward the cabin, "I _knew_ things were going too well!" 

* * *

I can't believe it. I've muffed this before I even got started. 

Leave it to me to literally stumble upon what was probably the skunk equivalent of a lover's lane. I would have thought the skunks would still be hibernating, but what the hell do I know? 

I know I still smell _rank_. 

Those little guys had to go and aim right for the hair. And let me be the first to tell you, the stewed tomatoes didn't work very well. I didn't need the grimace on Jim's face, or the fact he was _holding his nose_ to tell me that. Hell, I can still smell it, and frankly, it's making me a little nauseous. 

"Chief, we'll have to drive in to town and grab some stuff from the pharmacy. This happened to a guy I knew in the Rangers once. It should fix you right up." 

"Fine, just let me change out of these-" 

"No can do, Sandburg. We'll have to wash them the same time we wash you, or I'll be smelling it for days." 

"Can't we just rinse them out and hang them outside? I mean-" 

He shakes his head. 

Fine. Maybe I'll puke in the truck on the ride down the mountain. See how he likes _that_ smell. 

I slam out the door and stomp to the truck. 

I am _not_ a happy camper. 

"Hey, hey, hang on a minute, there. What do you think you're doing?" 

"I'm getting in the truck, Jim." What does he _think_ I'm doing? 

He hands me a couple of black plastic trash bags. 

"What are these for?" 

"For you. No way are you getting that smell on the car seats. It's too cold to ride with the windows down, and I won't be able to stand it unless you try to wrap it up a little." 

_This_ is the Jim I know and love. 

Well, maybe love, but definitely _know_. 

He wants me to _wear_ a trash bag. 

I give him my most disgusted look and punch a hole for my head at the top of the bag. 

I can humor him about the car seats, but if he thinks I'm gonna wear a plastic turban, he's got another thing coming. 

* * *

Blair is _pissed_. 

It's all I can do to keep a straight face. 

He actually bagged his hair. He looks like a girl at a beauty parlor, getting her roots touched up. Makes me think I should start carrying a camera around. 

He sulks all the way in to town, and when we get to the pharmacy, he rips the bag off his head and wriggles out of the rest of them. 

"That was _humiliating_ ," he informs me, but I shrug. Hey, he smells bad. I won't feel guilty about it. 

We walk in, the little bell jingles, and everyone in the store turns to stare at us and flare their nostrils. Blair gives a nervous chuckle and says, "Skunk." 

They all nod and look away again. 

"Man, I must smell worse than I _thought_!" 

He does. And it doesn't mix well with the menthol/band-aid/rubbing alcohol scent of the pharmacy, either. 

I walk over to the Health and Beauty aisle and scoop up a couple of boxes. Blair's eyes go round. 

"What the hell is _that_ for?" 

"It's for you. It was the only thing that worked on Garcia." 

"Massengil Douche Powder?!" and he's hissing like a teakettle, trying to yell under his breath. 

"Trust me on this one." I give him a look. "I'm surprised at you, Chief. What's the big deal? It's not any different than buying condoms. Don't tell me you've never done _that_ before." 

"Jim..." and he flips his hair back, and starts again. "Women's bodies are amazing works of art and nature, and I can accept any number of bodily fluids and monthly cycles..." He edges closer and says through his teeth, "But let's face it, feminine hygiene products do not have the same cachet as condoms, _believe_ me. 

"And if you want to know the truth, I've never-- I mean, it's not like I _lived_ with any of them. I could pack up and go home at night, no fighting over pillows, no sleeping on the wet spot, no-- I must sound like the biggest asshole." 

"Well, yes, actually, you do. You're lucky I know you're not, Sandburg. But I'll tell you this: you're making the purchase, Lothario." 

While it's nice to be the Sensitive 90's kinda guy for a change, rather than the macho pig, I don't tell Blair the trick is to buy a box of condoms along with any intimate feminine product. That way, yeah, you'll still look whipped, but at least the clerk will know you're getting some. 

I tip my head up and home in on the cashier. 

"And she's cute, too. Try not to make too much of an ass of yourself." 

He sighs and takes the boxes up front. 

The clerk wrinkles her pretty nose. 

"Sorry. Sorry. Skunks, ya know? Whatcha gonna do?" 

He sets the boxes down and she arches her brows, he says, "Old family remedy," and he's blushing, so of course she _melts_. 

The guy still has tomato pulp in his hair, but the girl's completely taken in. 

I can't believe this. 

We're here to see if we're gonna be "more" than we already are, and he's doing his damndest to pick up the cashier. 

"Sandburg," I remind him, and I poke him with my elbow and he gives me this irritated little "you're cramping my style" look and I slam out of the pharmacy, the stupid little bell tinkling behind me, and climb in the truck to wait him out. 

* * *

Hmm. 

I approach the truck cautiously, half expecting it to speed away before I get to it. 

Unless I miss my guess, Jim thinks I was flirting with the checkout girl. 

And I was, a little, but it doesn't _mean_ anything. 

I open the door and set the powder in the seat, and meekly slip into my fashionable plastic shell. Then I climb in and cover my hair again, feeling vaguely ridiculous and maybe... guilty? 

"Jim, I was just talking to her." 

He just gives me the Ellison Eye, and suddenly, I'm absolutely sure I know what he's thinking. And it pisses me _off_. 

"You think I'm incapable of real intimacy. You think I'm, I don't know, some kind of _cad_ or something-" 

"What the hell are you-" 

And maybe I'm not making sense to him right this second, but I'm on a tangent with a _purpose_. 

"You do! Jim, seriously, how many girls have I been with since you've known me? Really? I mean, I'm not a _nun_ , Jim, but I'm not collecting belt notches, either. 

"So I've never bought an intimate health product for a woman! I _would_ have, gladly, if I'd ever found a woman I felt as strongly about as I feel about you." 

Jim is gaping at me, and I run at the mouth to sidetrack him, because I've obviously said more than he was prepared to hear. 

"Um, you want me to buy you some Preparation H or something? I could score you some nosehair clippers," I offer. "Rogaine, maybe? They have hair in a can, now, man, we could fill that bald spot right in-" 

He raises his hands in surrender. 

"I appreciate the thought." He's trying not to smile, I can tell. The lines around his eyes get tight when he's faking a bland expression. Then his face relaxes, and I know he's going to get all sincere on me. "And I don't think you're 'incapable of intimacy', or a cad, or a nun, or whatever it is you think I think of you. You're my friend, and you're loyal and trustworthy and a whole lot more, so let's just drop this thing, smooth it over, and forget it for now, okay?" 

"Okay." 

* * *

We make it back to the cabin in one piece and I draw a bath. Thanks to the gas generator, there's hot water, and I perch on the edge of the tub while it fills up and yank my hiking boots off. I haven't closed the door yet, and Jim sticks his head in. 

"I don't know if we bought enough stuff, Sandburg." 

"We bought two boxes. How much can we need?" 

"We forgot about your clothes." 

"No Jim, I got it covered: I'll just take a bath with my clothes on." 

Jim looks morally offended as only he can, and shakes his head. 

"What about your hair?" 

"What _about_ my hair?" 

"You should probably use a whole box on it. And make sure you get all the seeds out of it." 

Jim is baffling me with this Mr. Solicitous act. 

"I'll do my best, man, but they're all over the place, and if I try to pick 'em out with a comb, they just go _goosh_ and slime my hair." 

"Sandburg..." he growls. 

He walks in tugs my left boot off (my unskunked left boot, I might add: the polecats were aiming high) and then lines up my footwear by the door. Then he turns back around and points at the tub. 

"What?" 

"I'm gonna wash your hair. You miss a seed, _I'm_ the one who's gonna smell it go bad." 

I feel something that is equal parts panic and passion jive around in my guts. 

"I'm not sure this is a good idea." 

"Actually, it's a very good idea, if you don't want to reek like Skunk Rat... Rata-- whatever that stewed tomato thing is you were gonna make." 

"Ratatouille?" 

"Yeah, that." 

So, I sink into the tub, jeans and all. 

It's a deeply weird sensation, being in a hot bath wearing waterlogged flannels. 

Jim says, "Dunk your head, Chief." 

What the heck. 

I hold my breath and soak my hair, looking at Jim through the blurry lens of the tub's surface tension. He looks like a big peach colored blob, hunched forward and waiting for me to sit back up again. I'm listening to the thrumming silence of the water all around me, the weird acoustics of the water and tile, and I feel peaceful, contented, safe from the world in this little bathroom, with Jim watching out for me. 

* * *

Blair took me maybe more literally than he needed to, but his hair's wet, and that was the main goal. 

His hair is all spread around and floating like seaweed. I can see tiny bubbles cling to his lashes, making them silvery. He doesn't seem in a big hurry to come up for air, so for maybe twenty seconds he sloshes around and then props himself into a sitting position, the run off from his sopping hair plopping into the water in the tub. 

I'm hunkered down by the tub, kneeling on a towel, with a second one around my neck in case I get any in his eyes. 

I start to sort through his hair, finding seeds, closing them between the nails of my thumb and forefinger and flicking them into the john. 

Meanwhile, he's busy tearing packets open and dumping them in his bathwater. 

"Did you know that every primate culture has ritual grooming?" 

I'm busy trying to get the slippery little seeds out of his hair, so I just grunt at him and keep picking through his wet, springy hair. It occurs to me that I should have tried this _before_ he got in the tub, or at least while his hair was dry, because my knees are gonna complain about this little maneuver later. 

"Seriously. Communal grooming ranges from Barbary apes to the town barber shop. It's all about communication, forming a societal bond." 

"Huh. Interesting," 

"No, really! And when you think about it, grooming in one form or another is involved in most primate courtship rituals as well. Of course, our grooming techniques are more isolated and preparatory than those of a pair of chimps intent on making wild monkey love. A shower and a shave before picking up your date isn't really the same as snacking on the parasites you're plucking from the hide of your--" 

"Look, Cheetah, how about you can the National Geographic bit and hand me that box you're holding?" 

"Sure thing, Tarzan." 

"Would you just give me that already?" 

And he clams up, and I open the box, tear the top off one of the packets inside and sprinkle the contents into his wet hair. 

It smells pretty neutral; it reminds me vaguely of chlorine, but it's not too bad, and it seems to be doing the trick. The Eau du Pew is fading fast. By the time he rinses this out and shampoos, he should be smelling like himself again. 

The stuff isn't made to lather, but I work it in as well as I can. I'm trying not to get any knots in the curls; his hair seems complicated to me. I like it, but I don't trust myself with it, especially when it's dry. Then it seems as wild and alive as he is. I tell him to dunk his head again. 

This time, he just swishes his hair around and sits up again, no SubMariner stuff. 

Before he tells me he can finish up on his own, I say, "You'd better soak your clothes, Chief. Strip and leave him here 'til morning." 

He gets out of the shirts easily enough, and they float around by his knees, all puffy with air. I can tell he's going to have a struggle with the jeans; wet buttonflies are a real pain in the ass. My face feels weird; I'm not blushing, but I feel like I should be. I should get up and let the guy take a shower, but I'm rooted to the spot, watching him fumble with the slippery buttons and the heavy, clinging fabric. 

He seems to remember I'm here, and he looks up, and _he_ blushes. 

"Uh, Jim, man, could you turn around?" 

I turn away from him, and I can hear his heart racing as he kicks out of the jeans, splashing me a little. I hear the water level rise again as he re-settles in the tub. 

"Okay," he says, and I turn back around again. 

Blair is... shining. His skin is pale and smooth on his shoulders, slick and... and beautiful. The water beads up and I find I'm tracing a drop all the way down his chest, past one brown, puckered nipple, down his flat belly, to the line of fine brown hair under his navel that disappears into-- 

He's still wearing his boxers, and they're not the kind get transparent when they're wet, because they're plaid flannel like everything else he owns. It makes me want to haul him out of the tub and kiss him stupid, but it also makes me want to tie my hands behind my back so I don't spook him. If I stay, I'm going to touch him, but if I leave, I don't know what the hell I'll do. Pace maybe. Possibly jerk off. Definitely wonder. 

I'd rather just touch him. 

"Hand me the shampoo, there, Sandburg." And the words sound normal. I sound like me. He does a double take, and then hands me the tall triangle shaped bottle his shampoo comes in. Lemon chamomile. I pour a dollop in my hand and rub it between my palms before smearing it into his hair. 

I've never washed anybody's hair but my own. Carolyn preferred to shower alone. And even when I had _more_ hair, I never had this much. I go slow, careful not to tangle it too much. I don't want Sandburg to have to comb snarls out of it for the next three weeks because I thought it would be nice to wash his hair. 

And it is. 

Nice. 

The water's still warm, and the bubbles tingle a little on my skin. I can feel the heat of his scalp, and the way the sleeve of muscle under the skin there rolls under my fingertips. 

Sandburg's head gets heavier in my hands the more he relaxes, and by the time I've built up a good lather, he's making this contended little sighing sound that makes me want to bury my face in his hair, wet, soapy mess or not. 

* * *

Jim is _fantastic_ at this. 

Man, I feel like I'm gonna _dissolve_ here. 

I can hear myself crooning a little, and I try to shut that down, and then, eventually, Jim's finger's stop working their magic and I realize he's been saying my name for a while now. 

I blink and sit up, squinting as one eye begins to sting a little from the soap. 

"Sorry, man. Didn't mean to zone out on you." 

He dabs my eye with the towel he's got around his neck. 

"You seemed to like it," he says, kind of smiling. 

"Oh, _yeah_. Yes. Very much." I realize I sound a little husky, like I just woke up from a twelve hour nap, and Jim's face is a little pink. 

"What is it?" 

He clears his throat a little and looks away. Then he looks back at me, eyes full of something like confusion. 

"Blair, why are you still wearing your boxers?" 

I glance down at my lap and see that, while the rest of my muscles have melted like ice cream on a hot sidewalk, one is ready to _flex_. Jesus. I'm sticking up out of the water like some kind of Periscope of Love. 

Talk about embarrassing. 

"I don't know," I admit. 

"Because I thought we were going to be... you know." 

"I know. I _know_. I just... I dunno. Got shy." 

"Look, Blair, this is hard for me, too. But if this is too weird..." 

"Jim! C'mon, man. I just didn't want to come right out and show you how much I want you. I mean, it's _obvious_ and everything," and I wave towards my soggy, tented boxers, "but you usually don't want to get naked right away and show how interested you are. Most girls will _run_ in the other direction." 

"I'm not most girls, Sandburg." 

This is true. 

Jim is like no girl I've ever met. 

He's like no man I've ever met, either. 

"Jim-" 

"Rinse off, Chief. I'm gonna go start dinner." 

And he gets up and walks out, the knees of his khaki's dark with slopped water. 

* * *

By the time Blair's dressed, the fire is burning nicely. 

We brought up a couple of frozen steaks in a cooler, and they should be thawed by now. I guess we could fry them inside on the range in the little kitchen, but it's not too cold out, and I just want to be outside for a while. 

Blair's hair is still damp; he only uses the hairdryer when he has a date, or it's cold enough to snap his curls off like long twirly twigs. 

It makes me shiver to think of his heavy wet hair against his neck, but he doesn't seem uncomfortable. 

He's sitting on a log with his hands dangling between his knees. 

I throw the steaks in the frying pan and set it on the tripod over the fire. 

Already the rich smell of roasting meat fills my nose. 

Blair stands up and walks around the fire, dropping down to settle on the low bench next to me. 

"I'm glad we came up here." 

I nod. I'm glad, too. 

My hand is on my thigh, and he reaches over and takes it, pressing his palm against my skin. 

I look over at him and close my other hand on top of his, and just look at him. His eyes are wide and serious, and his voice is deep and velvety. I'd rub my face against it if I could. 

"Jim, I want you to know... There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you. I'd walk across hot coals for you, man." 

I can't help it; I smile at him. He makes my chest tight when he looks at me that way, and I want to answer him before I have a heart attack. 

"I'm not sure about the hot coals part, but I'm pretty sure I feel the same way about you." 

"I think about you all the time." 

"Same here." I squeeze his hand. "Stop me when this gets repetitious. You know I'm not too good with words." 

"I don't know if there even _should_ be words," he murmurs, as if he's talking to himself, but he's staring straight at me, so I guess I'm supposed to say something to that. 

Or maybe _do_ something. 

So I lean over and just rest my forehead against the hair above his ear, where it's cool and damp against my skin, and just breathe for a while; the faintest ghost of skunk still sticks to him, but the warm scent that is Blair is strong and reassuring. 

"Jim, the steaks are gonna burn." There's something in his voice that tells me he doesn't really want me to go anywhere, but that he still felt obligated, as an Observer, to report the situation as it developed. 

"I like them well done," I whisper. Maybe if we keep talking softly, we'll just gradually discourage any conversation at all. 

"Jim," and it's nearly subvocal. He slips his hand out from under mine and cups my cheek, the fingers just reaching my eroding hairline. For a little guy, he has big hands; they're nearly as big as mine. Then he reaches up and frames my face. 

Blair looks at me so tenderly I have to close my eyes. 

I feel him lean toward me, hear him stretch to reach me, his warm breath steaming against my lips. 

For a moment, he just waits there, and I open my eyes to see if his are closed or not. 

They're not, and he just... _sinks_ into me... I don't know how to describe it, but I can hear his heartbeat, and smell the oatmeal he ate for breakfast on his breath, and his stomach grumbles a little because he hasn't eaten since then, and I can feel his blood throb in his palms and in the distance the wind stirs a billion pine needles and an owl flaps its wings and then 

Blair kisses me. 

* * *

I'm not a Sentinel, but I can _taste_ Jim.

He tastes Jimlike, and if you don't know him like I do, I'll never be able to explain it. 

I mean, when you kiss somebody, unless they have morning mouth, or smoke, or they just ate a footlong with mustard and kraut, you don't really taste anything. It's just your spit and their spit and a whole lotta tongue action. 

But there is something that lets me know it's Jim I'm kissing, and not just someone else with nice even teeth and a firm chin. 

He opens his mouth a little more and his teeth are so _smooth_ , and his tongue is like... I can feel this kiss all over, it's dancing all over every inch of skin, ever hair on my body is jumping to the jive, and I'm so hard, _still_ so hard, I mean, I subsided a little, but I'm _back_ , man, with a _vengeance_. I feel like I'm just gonna _pop_. 

Finally I have to haul my face away from Jim's or else pass right out, and he follows me, he leans forward to try to keep contact with my lips and I just lose it. 

I laugh out loud. 

"You are _so_ in love with me," I inform him. 

He just blinks at me as if to say, "Well, yeah. So?" 

"God." And I kiss him again. 

* * *

This time, when he kisses me I grab his shoulders and stand up, tugging him to his feet. His knees seem wobbly and he breaks the kiss again to bury his face against my shirt and pant. 

His chest is heaving; he sounds like he's been moving heavy furniture. 

"You okay, Chief?" Maybe it's some kind of panic attack? 

"Okay? I'm... I'm _paralyzed_ or something. I'm... I feel like... I... I..." 

I guess this comes under the "at a loss for words" thing. 

"I think we should put the fire out." 

For a moment, he looks _hurt_ , and then his expression clears and he wipes a hand down his face and then claps his hands together. 

"You mean the _fire_ ," he says. 

Well, yeah, "the fire". The kid baffles me sometimes. 

"We shouldn't leave it unattended and I kind of want to go inside now." 

I kind of want to go inside, my ass. I want to _be_ inside, and naked, and preferably naked inside of _Blair_. My palms are sweating just thinking about it. 

Without comment, Blair pours the contents of the coffeepot over the blaze and it sputters and dies. 

Then he grabs my arm and tows me toward the cabin door. 

* * *

Once we're inside, we start shucking our clothes. Jim's hurrying out of his jacket and shirt and I'm breaking all previous landspeed records. As I hop around trying to get my right boot off so I can get out of my suddenly constricting jeans, I try to keep the mood light. 

"Now would be the time to tell me about any embarrassing rashes. So I can pick up any potentially embarrassing products, you know? Blue Star Ointment or maybe some Viagra..." 

Jim rolls his eyes and drops his pants. 

"...which I see you will _not_ be needing..." 

I trail off then, mostly because my jaw is hanging open. 

Man. He could hit a ball right out of the field with that thing. 

"...burg. Sandburg? _Blair_!" 

"What?" 

"You're staring." 

And he's right, I _am_ , I'm _staring_. I'm close to gibbering. 

"Whoa, Jim... I ... I mean... Wow. This is so... so three-dimensional!" 

He actually laughs. 

"Yeah, I guess it is." 

One of the things I've always liked about Jim, although previously I'd also found it _unbelievably_ frustrating, is how easy he is in his body. How it does what he tells it to, how he's completely unashamed of it. Not that anybody in their right mind wouldn't be proud to call a body like that their own. But now, he has his left hand closed on his right wrist, and I realize he's trying not to look uncomfortable. 

I slip my boxers down and shake them off my foot. 

Him and me, and nothing else. 

His eyes are _heavy_ , like I can feel a wake of heat as he catalogues my absolutely 100% naked body. 

His gaze lingers at my dick, and I can feel it pulse in response, heavy and hot. So I'm a bit of an exhibitionist; it's the main reason I stayed so covered up around Jim. Part of it, yes, was the everpresent chilliness of Cascade, but a lot of it was me worrying I'd pounce on the guy if I got too comfortable around him even just shirtless. 

Then he meets my eyes again, and his face is dark and pupils are _huge_. 

But he's still way the hell over _there_. 

"Ideally, we touch each other now." 

As if he needed my permission, Jim prowls across the room and lays a liplock on me that just about causes braindeath... He has to half-carry me toward the bed. 

Well, bed is a generous term, really. 

It's a low army cot with a thin mattress; I briefly pity the counselors who have to _sleep_ on this thing, and for three months straight no less, before Jim drapes me over it and kneels on the floor beside me. 

"Blair," he begins, and his eyes are white hot, and his mouth, god, his mouth is like a freakin' tractor beam, I can't resist its pull, and I sit up and very, very thoroughly kiss Jim Ellison. 

* * *

I'm kneeling up, and my hands are knotted in Blair's hair. This is safer than kissing him standing up, because he was groaning and humping against my belly so much I was ready to shoot before I'd even really touched him. My knees are not enjoying the cold hard floor, but I ignore them and dial up, concentrating on Blair. 

Blair. Kissing me like it's a martial art and he's a blackbelt. It makes me wonder what he'd look like in a gi, with the robe hanging open... and no pants... 

Leave it to me to actually _have_ the guy naked and imagine him half dressed. 

Sometimes I'm not sure I make a lot of sense to anybody but Blair. 

His hands are roaming around, polishing the muscles of my chest, but I don't want to move my hands from where they are: I want to _concentrate_. If I let go of Blair's hair, I'll zone out, I know it, so I close my eyes and try to isolate one sensation at a time. 

Blair's lips. Soft, warm, generous, everything someone's lips should be. Much nicer than Carolyn's mouth, much kinder than her sipping kisses. I feel a twinge of guilt, realize it's not fair to compare Sandburg to Carolyn... Sandburg to anybody, really. 

The kid's a tough act to follow. 

Blair's hair. Nearly dry now, heavier at the back of his neck, resilient, springy, good to touch, it strokes the backs of my hands and cushions my palms, the curls catching at my fingers. I find I'm trying to loop the spiraling curls around my fingers, and they practically snake around on their own. 

His hands, his _hands_ , are gentle and caressing, as they have always been, but he's never petted my chest before, _definitely_ never thumbed a nipple, circling and teasing like that... 

"Yeah, Chief, just like that--" 

He's saying my name, and other things. I make an effort and try to make sense of him, swim up through the low beating drum of his heat and the pounding tide of his blood and breath to hear his voice. 

"Jim, what do I have to do to get you into the bed, here, man? I'm _ready_ already. C'mon!" And he's hauling me up, squeezing himself back against the cold wall (I watch the goosebumps raise the hairs at the back of his neck and race along his arms) so I can lay on my side facing him. 

I'm hanging off, actually, my ass to the breeze, but I'm too interested in what's going on down in front to worry about it much. 

My cock is swabbing Sandburg's belly with a heck of a lot of pre-ejaculate. I've been leaking steadily since he kicked out of his boxers, and if he just... 

Blair's strong, warm hand wraps around me and gives a long, pumping pull. 

"Blair!" and I sound mortified, because he's done it, he's set me off. One touch and I'm done, game over, and I'm coming all over his hand, guts clenching and eyes screwing shut. 

I smell Blair, I feel Blair, I can taste him on my lips and I'm seeing stars. 

And if I'm hearing him right, Blair is laughing. 

"Wow! That was _incredible_!" 

I shake my head a little, muzzy, my eyelids heavy. 

"Sandburg," I moan, despairing. 

"You were just _beautiful_ , man. I am so supremely _flattered_. My ego's gonna dine on caviar for weeks about this." 

I jump the gun like a teenager and the kid's congratulating me. 

God, I love this man. 

* * *

Jim seems out of it, and I'm a little blitzed myself. 

I am so into him. 

When he came (one touch!) I about lost it. 

His face went red, and his mouth fell open in a soundless groan that made me want to try and catch it in my mouth, swirl it around like a fine wine. 

I think he's a little worried I'll knock a few points off his score for what he probably considers "premature" ejaculation, but I'll tell you what, no girlfriend of mine has ever come from _one_ touch of the ol' Sandburg Magic Fingers. 

I mean, even _I'm_ not _that_ good... 

But I'm not up to explaining too much right now, which is probably another first, and then Jim's eyes sharpen up and he's looking at me like he's a glutton with a sweet tooth and I'm the last peanutbutter cup. 

"Your turn," he says, his voice so low I can feel it in the soles of my feet and then he's licking himself off my hand, _sucking_ on my fingers, and _bam_ I am so ready I think if he strokes my erection with an _eyelash_ I'll come like a geyser. 

But he goes above and _beyond_ , man: he swallows me _whole_. 

I have known quite a few girls in my life, and many of them had real skill in the oral pleasure department- 

But Jim... 

Jim should teach _seminars_. 

He's slurping me with an enthusiasm that is nothing less than _gratifying_. 

"God, Jim-" 

He's singleminded, and completely dedicated. Did they give medals for this kind of thing? I want to giggle at a sudden weird image of Jim as some freaky brand of Black Ops Boy Scout, earning his Merit Badge in Mindblowing Fellatio. 

But I don't have enough breath to laugh, and when I come, when Jim increases the pressure and tickles just behind the head of my cock with his tongue and I _jet_ into the flexing heat of his throat, I only have enough air in my lungs to croak his name and then stare at the ceiling in a daze. 

* * *

I finish swallowing, a little drunk on Sandburg, on this whole experience, and I wedge my arm underneath him and shove until he's propped up against me and I have the whole frame of the cot under my ass. 

I pick up one of his hands and chafe it against my cheek, and he blinks, comes around and turns his head. 

"I can't _believe_ you did that." 

"Why not?" 

"Well... maybe I was prepared to believe you would... _could_ do it... But I never figured you'd be, like, an _expert_!" 

I grin at him. 

"Does that mean you liked it?" 

" _LIKED_ it!? Jim, I think I lost I.Q. points. Tell me if you start recalling obscure facts about indigenous peoples of the Amazon Basin, all right?" 

"Will do, Chief." 

"Jim?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Are we gonna... I'd like to... I _want_ to keep doing this. Keep touching you. Will we still be able to do this once we, you know, get back to the loft?" 

I nod. 

"Do you think this is going to be okay?" And he sounds a little concerned, wary. 

"We are okay." I hug him, relish the whole skin to skin thing, touching Blair from shin to shoulder, my arms wrapped across his strong back. "We'll be okay. I... you know I..." 

"I know. Believe me, I know." He nuzzles close and peppers little kisses against my throat "I love you, too." 

I'm not an emotional guy; I leave the "get in touch with yourself" stuff to Blair. But I'm not so rigid or repressed that I can't recognize love when I see it. 

Or when I hear it. 

I blow in his ear, lick the skinny silver earrings that, to Sentinel ears, jingle like music when he walks. 

"Next time I get to actually _say_ it before you declare it for me, okay, Darwin?" 

"Deal, man." A pause. "Is it next time yet?" And there's a smile in his voice, but also anticipation. 

It seems like it's taken us forever to get here, for me to realize how much Blair means to me, to have him naked next to me, so it doesn't take a lot of preamble or hesitation for me to finally say it. 

"I love you." 

* * *

Oh, _man_. 

Can you say _afterglow_? 

I think you can. 

I'm _floating_ here, Jim all around me, the narrow bed now just the right size. 

He loves me. 

Hell, I _knew_ it, but I can't believe he _said_ it. 

And he said it like he'd been thinking about it for a while, like it was something he had no problem admitting. 

Jim impresses me without even trying about seven times a day, but this is really an _accomplishment_. 

Us. Together. _Together_ together, the sticky, swap spit, come-'til-I'm-cross-eyed together. 

A good idea and about time, I say. 

My stomach rumbles, and it doesn't take Sentinel ears to hear it. 

Jim rubs my belly and grins at me. 

"The steaks are probably salvageable." 

" _Good_ , because, Jim, I love you, man, but if we don't eat soon, I'm gonna start chewing on _you_." 

He tousles my hair before he rolls to his feet. 

"Hold that thought, Chief. Hold that thought." 


End file.
